Quill
by Galae
Summary: Six years of dorming together and they don't know anything about each other. Oliver and Percy decide finally that it's time to change that. (slash, Oliver/Percy)
1. evolution

Well.  So Galae had traversed into the Oliver/Percy aisle of HP fanfiction.  

And so have you.

Enjoy.

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**Quill**

**_by Galae_**

Oliver didn't know him.  Not really.  It's pretty sad when you've spent seven years of your life sleeping in the same room with somebody and not know anything about them except for the color of their hair.

It's not his fault.  Percy was just . . . so _him_.  Prefect, Head Boy, no-I-can't-look-up-because-then-I'd-have-to-unstick-my-face-from-this-book.  Oliver wasn't a total idiot, but he didn't see the appeal in _The Splendid History of the Muggle-Magical Relations Department._

"Ya thinking again?" George asked as he thrust him a bag of Bertie Bott's.  

"Oh, no, George, we're going to have to get a card to commemorate the moment!" Fred gasped.

"Shut up." Oliver reached over to hit him on the head.  

Fred ducked just in time.  Oliver cursed, and Fred stuck out his tongue.  "Beater reflexes!  Hah!  Your training _does_ pay off!"  He skipped away in the direction of Angelina.

What was he doing, musing over Percy Weasley at a time like this?  Gryffindor's on its way to the Quidditch Cup, _at last_, and as the overzealous captain he should be dancing up and down for joy.  Oliver smiled.  He was one weird bloke.

"C'mon, Wood, tell.  What's up?"

Oliver turned.  George's eyes challenged him.

"I'm thinking about your bro," he said honestly.

"What?"

"Just the fact that . . . I dunno . . . it's weird how I know you two so much better than I know him.  Even though we're both in the same year."

George shrugged.  "Well, for three reasons.  One, he's not exactly Mr. Quidditch."

"True," Oliver admitted.

"Two, he's got pompous oaf written on his forehead."

"George . . ."

"Oh, it's true.  Don't deny it," George said.  "Why are you so fascinated by Percy all the sudden?"

Oliver smiled.  "I was counting Weasleys.  I kept on getting to four and knowing that there's a fifth, but I could never place the fifth.  That was when I realized that I didn't know your brother at all."

"If you're askin' me," George confided, "there's really not that much you'd want to know about him."

"The last reason?"

"And three, he's actually smart."

When Oliver reached over, this time he didn't miss.

That night, he was so tired that he just flopped onto the bed and felt like he never wanted to get up.  Parties had always been a little bit draining for him.  There was just something about a lot of people and too much Butterbeer.  Not a good combination.

That was when Oliver realized that Percy wasn't there yet.  It was an interesting realization because most of the time Oliver didn't even notice him even if he was there.  Percy was just like that.  He was so different from the twins.  Fred 'n George, you just can't _help_ but notice them.  To Oliver, Percy had always been quiet, placid, and about as exciting as warm oatmeal.

The door clicked.

"Oh.  Hi," Percy said.  His hair was a little tousled.  

"Hi," Oliver agreed.

Normally that would have been his cue to turn away and go to sleep, but this time Oliver watched him.  Percy was walking over to his desk and lighting a candle.

"So," Oliver said, clearing his throat.  "You had a good time?"

Percy looked up.  It was there in his eyes—utter surprise.  Well, that was pretty much expected.  

"Yes," Percy said cautiously.

Oliver sat up and swung his legs to the side of the bed.  "Really?"

"Gryffindor won.  It's a great victory for our House," answered Percy, dutifully.

"No.  I mean, you had a good time with Penny?"

Bull's eye.  Percy flushed.

"Aww, don't look like that, Percy.  She's a great girl."

"I know," he said quietly.

"Oh…"  There's something wrong.  "What happened?"

Percy smiled a little.  "I just told her that she's a great girl whom I had to let go of."

"Percy Weasley!"

"I'm an honorable person."

"You're a stupid person."

"Oh?  I've never heard that one before."

"You nut," Oliver said, shaking a finger at him.  "You're never going to get a girl like her again.  She _loves_ you.  Er, past tense on what one.  Why?"

Percy slid a book into his bookshelf.  It fit in perfectly.  _Persistence and Time—How Great Leaders are Made in Today's Wizarding World_.

"I don't love her. She thinks I do, but I don't.  I can't lie to her.  So I let her go."

"Gently?" Oliver asked.

"In my opinion, or judging by her reaction?"

Oh.  The hair.  Oliver winced.

"I'm sure you made the right decision," Oliver said.  

"Of course I did.  I thought it through," Percy said evenly.  He sat on his bed and started unlacing his shoes.  

And all of the sudden, Oliver got an image of Percy sitting at his desk with a scale in front of him, industriously weighing the pro's and con's.  He laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"It's just that I'm sure you thought it through," Oliver said with a straight face.  He told him.

Percy couldn't help it.  He started laughing too.

Percy had no idea what happened.  He broke up with Penny and Oliver's joking with him?  Did the world really end?  The next thing to happen, he thought wryly, would be Snape showing up to class in a pink tutu.

He put his shoes down and reached for his pajamas.  Usually he would have just shucked his robe right then and there, but somehow, with Oliver's attention, he felt awkward about it.

Percy pursed his lips together.  "I'm going to use the bathroom," he mumbled, grabbing his pajamas and sliding off his bed.

Standing in the bathroom, he felt flushed.  Was there something wrong with him?  Was there something wrong with Oliver?  He shook his head, stripping off his robe, and then his shirt and pants.  

Of course there is nothing wrong.  Just because Oliver suddenly decided to talk to him after, oh, seven years . . . Doesn't mean a thing.  

Percy could pinpoint that moment in time.  Later on, when he thought about everything, he would say, "Ah, _that's_ when it all started."

The first conversation wasn't at all uncomfortable.  By and by, talking to Oliver didn't feel as alien as it had before.  Little snatches of words before bed, talks in the library while doing their Transfiguration homework—all lent themselves to the purpose of friendship.

Now that they talked about everything and nothing, Percy didn't know how it was that he and Oliver never spoke to each other before that year.  In his precise, methodical way, he discerned that it was something with the way they both regarded one another.  He had always thought Oliver to be a brainless yet egotistical jock.  Oliver had always seen him as the prim and proper Prefect who didn't know one end of the broomstick from another.  They perceived the differences in each other, and as they were of an age fearing rejection, they refused to substantiate those differences.

But now they could no longer hide behind their younger illusions.  The war with Voldemort, the final year of Hogwarts—all had made them more alert and more perspicacious about their surroundings, and ultimately, about each other.  

In Oliver, Percy found the friend he had always longed for.  It was amazing how quickly misperceptions could be dismantled once the cornerstone of silence falls.  During the next three months, they went from barely knowing each other to finishing each other's sentences.  

It was scary, but Percy loved it.  He had always been the odd one out in the Weasley family.  He loved his family, of course, but he never felt the closeness that Bill and Charlie felt, or Ron and Ginny, or anything close to what the twins had.  That aloof attitude burrowed him in the books, and it was only upon his third year that he realized what kind of effect he had on people.  By then it was too late.  The students of his year had already fallen into their respective groups, and Percy, studious Percy, was again short of anyone to be close to.

Not surprisingly, he turned to academics.  It was the one thing that he was good at, and if he couldn't spend Friday afternoons with friends he would spend it with the books he had always loved.  Even when Penelope came, and with her general acceptance, Percy always felt that he dealt better with inanimate objects than people.

But Oliver!  Had he ever felt this comfortable with anyone before?  Even in the deepest, most intimate moments with Penelope (and admittedly, what counted as "intimate" was rather tame), he had never felt this much at ease.  It was like something just "clicked."  

One thing, however, Percy could never get over.  Undressing for bed.  Maybe it was the fact that Oliver was a Quidditch player, or maybe it's the fact that Percy's always been uncomfortable in his skin, but since that night he had always changed in the bathroom, or before Oliver came in.  He hoped that Oliver didn't notice this.  For some reason, he felt that it was unnatural to feel that discomfiture.

Percy shook his head.  

"What are you _talking_ about, Quidditch requires brain cells?"

Oliver grinned.  No matter how many times had they had this discussion?  "Of course," he shot back.  "You have to mix agility with intuition with strategy.  The classic triad.  Quidditch is genius on broomsticks."

Percy snorted.  "Dumbledore never played Quidditch."

"You're just jealous cause you can't sit on a broomstick without getting sick."

"You're just defensive cause _Quidditch through the Ages_ is the only book you'd touch."

"Prat."

"Bugger."

"_That's_ harsh!" Oliver proclaimed, eyes wide.

Percy laughed.  "The point of the matter is, the most important aspect of Quidditch is catching a ball.  You can't tell me that it requires deep thinking to do that."

"The _aerodynamics_ of the whole thing—"

"The Snitch obeys no laws of aerodynamics.  It doesn't even touch kinematics.  And the Bludgers . . . Don't even get me started on _their_ momentum . . ."

"You know too much," Oliver grumbled.

"Your fault for dragging me to a game," Percy pointed out, smiling.  "Who knew that Muggle physics and Quidditch could be such an invincible match?"

Fred leaned over.  "Hey, as soon as you two are done debating the end of the world, can you pass me the jelly?"

Oliver laughed.

It was that night that Oliver noticed it.  The fact that Percy took his pajamas to the bathroom and changed there.

It took him a while to figure out what's wrong, but when he did he wanted to laugh.  What was that all about?  Had Percy Weasley developed some kind of nudity issues?  

Okay, that was bad.  Oliver was getting some pictures in his head that were _not _supposed to be there.  He gulped.  That's not a good sign.  But then and again, it's all Percy's fault anyways.  Him and his stupid uptightness.  

Well, that was uncharitable.  Out of all the things that Oliver had found out about Percy, he is not _uptight_.  At least, not so in the usual sense of the word.  Sometimes Percy snapped.  Sometimes Percy stood aloof.  A lot of times he pressed his lips together tightly in that typical Percy Weasley way, but Oliver knew better than that now.  

He knew how Percy dealt with it, carrying all that responsibility with him everyday.  He had given himself to the world, because it needed someone like him.  Someone to keep the order, to iron out the detours, to hold it immaculately in both hands.  At night, alone in their room, Percy laughed.  However hard he had it, Percy loved it all.  

Sometimes, Oliver would wake up an hour before dawn.  Between plotting new intrigues against the Slytherins and calculating how many people he had to kill for the Quidditch Cup, Oliver would look at Percy.  Even when he's asleep, he looked neat.  His pajamas, however worn and faded they might be, were cleaner than Oliver's and by far less wrinkly.  He never mussed up his sheets.  Even his freckles were spread in an orderly fashion on his skin, although Oliver doubted that Percy would appreciate that comment.  Yes.  The only thing that was _never_ tidy was Percy's hair.

Percy had nice hair.  Before, whenever Oliver went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror, he would always be thankful that his dark brown hair always lay perfectly.  But now he wondered what it would have been like if he had been born redheaded.  If there was such a thing as thinking too deeply, it would be that Oliver knew exactly how to describe Percy's hair: soft fire.

Those mornings, Oliver would prop his head up with his elbow and wonder what Percy dreams about—or even if he dreams at all.  Did he dream of Penny?  Of working in the Ministry?  Of winning the House Cup against Slytherin?  Or even . . . did Percy ever dream of him?

To tell the truths of all truths, Oliver himself dreamt a lot.  He had always been more of an emotional than a logical being, and that carried over to his sleep.  His dreams had always been bizarre—Voldemort singing the theme song for "Full House" on the Quidditch field, Harry announcing that he's going to America to seek his fortunes in the showboat business, and even Fred 'n George telling him to be "sensible."  Oliver snorted at the last one.  

Lately, he had dreamt of Percy.  The first time a surprisingly normal scene.  He made a mess in Potions and Percy was scolding him for it.  The second time it was about Percy and Penny sitting together on the grass, and he happened to walk by them.  For some reason, Percy didn't even look up and a shot of hurt coursed through him.  

"Well, don't you look deep in thought," Percy said wryly as he stepped outside the bathroom.  "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Oliver said.  "_Don't _get started, Percy."

Percy grinned.  "So.  What are you thinking about?"

"Honestly?  You."

"What?  What about me?"

Oliver's throat stuck.  "Uh . . . just about how I had a dream a while back that I blew up a cauldron in Snape's class and you kept on telling me that I was scrubbing the floor wrong."

Percy's eyebrows raised, but a smile played on his lips.  "I am _that_ pathetic, even in your dreams?"

"Your words, not mine," Oliver said.

Percy slipped into his bed, and while he did, his shirt stretched open to reveal four square inches of smooth collarbone.  Percy must have noticed it, because he immediately fastened the top button that he had missed.

Oliver, meanwhile, quickly looked away.

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Would you all like to know how I suddenly went to Oliver/Percy?  Well, I started this fic, actually, five months ago.  Then I started watching anime (and studying), and I fell in love with _Yami no Matsuei_, and _Weiss Kreuz_.  Both GREAT animes, by the way, although I tend to favor the first one.  But then somehow I went back to Oliver/Percy again.  

It's just so cute, I guess.  I couldn't resist the cuteness.  I've always identified with Percy—studious, serious, and bossy—and MY GOD!  HAVE YOU SEEN OLIVER WOOD?  I'm going to, like, move to England if all guys looked like _that_.  So my train of thought was, if I can't have Biggerstaff (::snickers:: How does someone live with a name like that anyways?), I'll do the next best thing.  I'll pair him up with my favorite character.


	2. discovery

_Author's Note:_

Thanks to one of the reviewers who noted that I made one of the most dangerous mistakes in all of slash fanfiction—making a gay guy seem too much like a girl.  This is the revised Chapter 2 of "Quill."  The original version sucked.  And yes, there is bad language in this chapter!  And I also fixed up another great mistake.  The word for "fictional" is "apocryphal," not "apocalyptical."  Ugh!  

**Quill**

**_by Galae_**

It was that night that Oliver dreamed again.  This time, there were no dragons spewing fire at him, no murky pond that he was about to drown in.  This time, there was just him and somebody else.  The other person was speaking softly, and Oliver didn't understand anything he said.  But he was soothed by the cadence of his voice. Sitting in the moonlight, he rested his head upon the other person's shoulder.

He woke up.  That was, undoubtedly, one of the most pleasant dreams he's had in a while—or, at least, since January.  Oliver turned.  There was no uncertainty in his mind as to the fact that the "other" was a guy, but . . . ?

Yes, Oliver knew, from last year, that he was attracted to men and women alike.  The fact didn't bother him as much as he thought it would, because there simply wasn't any _guy_ in the school of Hogwarts that he liked.  The guys he was attracted to were far away, diaphanous, and totally apocryphal.  

But now . . . _who_ was the other person?

When Oliver woke up the next morning, he dressed, ate, and went to class with the mechanics of routine.  The next week, he sought to match up the voice he heard in his dreams, and was continually frustrated by his attempts.  He worked up a major headache by Friday and was forced to ask Madame Pomfrey for some Pepper-Up Potion. At the end of the week, Oliver simply gave up and shut off all sounds, relegating himself into the relative sanity of mental silence.

It was only a dream, after all. 

"So.  Tell me what happened in the Goblin-Maccheser War of 1725.  Oliver?  Oliver?"

Oliver opened one eye tiredly.  "You mean there a war in 1725?"

"Oh, c'mon.  Don't fall asleep on me _now_.  We got to get moving.  We have the test in two days, Oliver."  Percy squeezed through a tight smile as a bribe.  The candlelight struck up the golden shadows of his face, and made him look almost . . . dream-like.

"All right, all right, I'm listening, slave driver," Oliver yawned, rubbing his eyes a little.  "Tell me about the Goblin-Massacre War."

"Goblin-_Maccheser_," Percy corrected.  "1724, the goblin king—who was it?"

"Berd the Old," Oliver said promptly.

"Very good.  Well, the story started in 1693, when the Macchesers had invaded an area near the goblin kingdom called Crystalmere.  Since then, the goblins had been wanting to regain the area.  In 1724, Berd won the Battle of Pandle against the King of Maccheser—_he_ was called Alexander IV—and thus the goblins decided to invade Crystalmere once more.  That was what precipitated the Goblin-Maccheser War.  The turning point was when Alexander turned back the goblins at Castledown.  The war ended with the Treaty of Whistleton, in 1726.  Crystalmere was retained by Maccheser, as well as the area surrounding Castledown.  This war, however insignificant it might seem, was the precursor to the larger, more important War of 1766, which _everyone_ remembers."

Percy ended that statement with a lingering question mark.  Oliver was paying attention, all right, but perhaps not in the way that Percy intended.  Instead of _listening_, a third of the way through his speech Oliver had fallen back on simply _hearing_.  Or, more importantly, hearing Percy's voice.  

It was . . . it.  It was what he had dreamt of.  That simple cadence, mellifluous in its ups and downs, only clipped a little because of the hour.  And Oliver's head was spinning.

What did it mean?  Was _that_ what it meant?  That Percy—God forbid!—_Percy_ was the one?

"Oliver."

"Perce, I think . . ."

"I'm know.  I'm exhausted too.  Go to sleep, why don't you."

He wasn't sleepy at all.  Instead, he felt the blood rush into his ears, pounding like some great deluge of confusion and relief and disappointment and uncertainty.  Oliver had never felt so mixed-up in his entire life.  All of the sudden, the room faded into its glowing shades of gold and brown.  Only Percy . . . only Percy's voice floating to his ears, magnified a thousand times.

"Oliver, you don't look well.  Are you sure you're all right?  I'm sorry I made you stay up so late . . . I just . . ."  
            "Percy."  Even that name now made his tongue dry.  "I'm all right.  Really.  Go to b—bed."

Of course he couldn't fall asleep.  Not _then_.  Instead, Oliver faked long, deep breaths, which he punctuated with languid movements.  It sounded believable even to himself.  He listened as Percy blew out all the candles (not trusting magic to extinguish them completely) and put himself to bed.

After about ten minutes, Percy fell into slumber.  Another five minutes, and Oliver cautiously drew back the covers.  He sat on his bed, legs crossed, as he watched his only roommate.  Percy was in dreamland, totally oblivious to the fact that Oliver Wood was staring at him through the night and contemplating the future.

The moon filtered through the windows.  Its light, combined with Percy's naturally pale complexion, made his skin look almost ghostly.  Percy wasn't a traditionally handsome boy.  Oliver's looks had always garnered attention, but Percy was perfectly ordinary.  Oliver studied him.  Yep.  His eyes were a little too small for his face, his nose too long, his lips too long and thin.  Definitely not the best-looking person in the world, but . . . somehow very, very comfortable.

Was that it, then?  The person he had been searching for?  It was Percy?  

He had _never_ . . . and even _never_ doesn't seem to fit the impossibility of the moment.  _Never, ever_ had Oliver imagined . . . had Oliver ever thought . . . had it ever crossed Oliver's mind . . . that he would ever think about Percy this way.  Percy was a friend.  Like Fred 'n George.  Ouch, that was a bad correlation.  The fact of the matter _is_, Oliver had never looked on him as anyone even remotely close to . . . someone he could be involved with.  Romantically.  Bewilderedly, Oliver wondered if Percy and romance even belonged to the same universe.  Of course, there was Penny, but _that_ was.  Well.  Oliver would hardly call that really typically teenaged dating.

After he finished laughing at the picture of Percy trying to woo someone, he thought about it seriously.  It was not a deterring picture; instead, Oliver realized that it was endearingly sweet.  Percy would always have his thoughtfulness, his sincerity, his innocence.  

Oliver's heart gave a little jump.  How long had it been since he had had someone like that?  Someone he could always wonder at, someone that had been everything that Percy was?  

Suddenly, a great urgency seized him.  _Oh God_, he thought, _oh God.  Or Merlin.  Whoever's up there . . . I understand it all now.  If I could just have him . . . have him for one day, one moment . . . I would ask nothing for the rest of my life.  I think I finally realized it.  I do want him, but not in that way.  Well, not only in that way.  I need him. I never thought about it until now, and I guess this is my punishment for remaining forever thickheaded, but . . _

_I would be happy.  So happy . . ._

Oliver had taken to looking at Percy.  A lot.

He didn't even notice that he was doing it, at first.  When he did noticed, he prayed to God that Percy was as oblivious to him as he was to Quidditch.  But then and again, no.  In his little heart, Oliver _did_ want him to notice.  Just a little bit.  Enough to make him think about Oliver the way that Oliver thought about him.

Perhaps that was the reason why he started becoming so preoccupied with Quidditch again.  Because it only on the Quidditch field that Oliver was _sure_ Percy was looking at him.  Too bad he couldn't enjoy the attention.  It was rather hard to exchange looks with your unrequited love when melon-sized balls were pummeling at you at thirty-five kilometers an hour.

Once, in an early morning practice, Oliver came down a terrible cold and spent the rest of the day, in bed.  When Percy rushed back into their dorm, he quickly went about making potions for Oliver to swallow.  Granted, it must have been against some rule—making medicinal potions without Madame Pomfrey's approval—but Percy knew that if the nurse saw Oliver's condition, Gryffindor might have to forfeit the game the next day.  So he went about, busying himself with complicated procedures and delicate ingredients.   

When Percy brought a goblet of steaming medicine to Oliver's hand, Oliver took it.  Their fingers grazed for one second, and the goblet slipped out of his hand.  Immediately, Percy yelled a spell to keep the medicine from pouring all over the bedspread and burning Oliver.

"Thanks," Oliver said wryly.  "You know, even if you had let that one go, I wouldn't have blamed you."

Percy smiled as he handed Oliver the goblet again.  "_I _would have.  I always have looked out for you, and I think I always will.  I care about you, Oliver."

"That's very nice of you."  Oliver almost flushed until he realized that Percy was a Prefect—he was _supposed_ to say things like that.

But still . . . there was something in Percy's voice that kept him hoping.

"Oliver," said Percy.  "You know, it's not polite to stare."

"I'm sorry.  I didn't mean it."

Percy smiled.  "It's not often that people stare at me.  I find it a novelty."

They were sitting in their dormitory, door closed, Arithmancy books spread open all over Oliver's bed.  They had moved onto that because their desks were overflowing with History of Magic and Potions.  Percy was sitting cross-legged on one side of the bed, and Oliver claimed the pillow.  He couldn't help thinking that he would like Percy on his bed more often, perhaps not with books all around them.

"You have an interesting face," Oliver said.  He didn't think any more about it because he was speaking honestly.

"That's probably the best anyone's ever come up with," Percy said ruefully.

"No.  I don't mean it that way.  And you know it."

"Well, I suppose I'll take that as a compliment, Cedric-Diggory-of-the-Gryffindor-House."

"I'm the Diggory of the Gryffindors?" Oliver said, eyebrows arching.

 "You're every bit as good-looking as he is," Percy said.  His voice was quite matter-of-fact.  

Oliver's heart fluttered.  He grinned impishly.  "You think I'm good-looking?"

Percy looked taken aback.  "Of course you're good-looking, Oliver.  My God!  You have every girl in the entire school ogling you, and you think you're not good-looking?"

"I wasn't aware of that."  Especially since _he_ was the one doing the ogling.  "But thanks."

"Your modesty always amazes me.  People would call you the King of Quidditch and you wouldn't bat an eye.  Someone tells you you're kind, or smart, or handsome, and you look at them like they grew an extra nose."

"Well, nobody's ever _called_ me smart before," Oliver pointed out, flushing.  

"You are.  You know that, Oliver?  Extremely intelligent.  Once you take it off the Quidditch field, you amaze me."

"I do?" Oliver was definitely confused.

Percy nodded.  He tapped the book in front of him.  "This text?  Last week, you didn't know a mugwump from a wobbly.  Now, you know the History of Magic forwards, backwards, and upside down."

_If you only knew the reason_, Oliver thought distractedly.  How many days had he spent, urging Percy to help him study just to hear his low, rhythmic voice?  Aloud, he said, "I don't know.  I've always been good at history.  Wars and stuff . . . you know, that was my thing.  As a kid I'd sit there and study battle plans for all the big wars—Sarang and the War of 1766 and Helmick-Cortasia.  Strategy, I guess.  When I met Quidditch, I kind of forgot about that.  All of the sudden I wasn't really lonely anymore, so . . ."  Oliver cracked a smile.

Percy was staring at him with an especially bemused look on his face.  "You were lonely once?  You, Oliver Wood?"

"You better believe it," Oliver said, leaning back a little.  "I was a quiet little thing when I was a kid.  A fucking Scot in London.  My parents were perpetually on business, and my only relatives lived in kilts and bagpipes.  I went to a public school when I was a kid and you know how it is.  All the kids knew each other except for me.  The only saving grace was that I was good at rugby.  I eventually had a few friends, but I was never _popular_.  Just when I began to fit in, I came to Hogwarts.  Of course," he added quickly, casting a look at Percy.  "I'm very grateful that I did.  But I just . . ."

"I know," Percy said quickly.  "I understand."

 "So," he said wryly.  "Do you have any secrets?"

Percy smiled again.  Oliver never thought that you could categorize smiles, but Percy's was distinctly his.  Intelligent.  Kind.  "You know my biggest secret, Oliver.  I am a very happy person.  Nobody thinks I am.  Everyone thinks that it's _impossible_ to like being in my position.  But they never realized how much I have.  Heck, I didn't even know how much I had until this year.  I've never loved myself, truly.  But I'm beginning to."

"Percy."

They just sat like that, regarding each other.  Oliver's brown eyes mirrored Percy's dark blue ones.  A flicker of the sun, and, as if he had been meaning to do it all along, Percy leaned forward and touched Oliver's cheek with one finger.  Oliver trembled under that touch, feeling how incredibly warm but soft Percy's finger was.  That finger softly caressed his cheekbone, moving to his chin.  Oliver leaned forward, and the thing he knew, their lips had met.

His heart was aching with such a tender throb that it was like he had never been kissed before.  At the same time, blood was coursing through his veins, filling his ears with the loudness of his heart's thump-thump-thump.  

_My God!  I'm kissing Percy!_ was his first coherent thought.  In all his fantasies, Percy had been the innocent, the one that had to be led through everything.  Now, innocent, naïve Percy was kissing him with so much enthusiasm and skill that it left him breathless.  Oh man.  If Percy ever slipped his tongue inside his mouth, Oliver would be lost.

When Percy pulled away, Oliver saw him searching his face, and he really laughed this time.  "Perce," he whispered, and pulled the other boy close.  They kissed again, this time adjusting to each other's rhythms and slowly unfolding their enthusiasm.  When Oliver coaxed Percy's lips apart, the other responded eagerly.  

Oliver had his hands upon Percy's shoulders, and now he slid them down, wanting to make sure that he was awake.  He had never kissed a boy before.  This was so much different than kissing a girl!  Percy's back was firm and he smelled like a man.  Oliver moved his hands all over his body, feeling the muscles move beneath his fingers.  

After they moved into a tranquil dance of the tongues, Percy edged forward to ease his legs, pushing aside all the books that separated them.  Off in the corner of his mind, Oliver heard a distant thud, and that sound was as delightful to his ears as music.  Holding Percy tight, Oliver sought to find a more comfortable position.  He unlocked his legs and leaned backwards cautiously into his pillow, pulling Percy forward with him.  

However young they were, they did need to breathe.  When they parted for a second time, it took them a few seconds to realize what kind of position they were in.  Percy's cheeks were flushed, and Oliver could only look at him dazedly.  Did they just do . . . did Percy really . . .

"Oliver," Percy breathed.

"Perce."

They laughed again, and Percy slowly shifted to lie beside Oliver, whisking a scroll out of the way.  Their foreheads touched.  All they could do was lie there, looking at each other, marveling at how it all unfolded.  

"Was that . . . was that okay with you?" Percy asked finally.

"Forever the fucking Prefect, huh?" Oliver demanded.  "Of course it was.  I've been wanting it for months."

"Months?" Percy asked, arching his eyebrows.

"Yes.  Two and a half, as a matter of fact."

"So I wasn't dreaming when I thought you were looking at me a lot."

"No."  Oliver grew quiet.  "Did you mean it too, when you said you'd always look out for me?"

"With my heart and soul," Percy murmured.  

"How did you know?"

"I didn't," Percy admitted.  "But just then—when I saw the light in your eyes—I knew that I had to take the chance.  So I did."

Hmm. That wasn't too bad. Probably better than most of my "let's-get-together" scenes.

_A Note on Accuracy: _I did not make up a "mugwump" and "wobbly." They happened to come from US History. However, they have nothing to do with magic. Other terms about the History of Magic, like the Sarang and Whistleton, came totally out of my imagination. 

_Lastly_,

| Review | They're kindly appreciated!

V V


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